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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24699118">a rose by any other name</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones'>erebones</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Post-Time Skip, Roses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:29:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,771</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24699118</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In the peppercorn-pink sunshine of late afternoon, Claude plucks a rose. It is not like any of the other roses in the gardens at Garreg Mach; not a pale, matronly salmon, nor a virgin blush, but a deep succulent red that’s nearly black where the velvety petals curl together near the stem, a bloody goblet for a faerie king. It had rained, earlier, and a few drops still linger toward the center of the bloom like diamonds on a bed of silk. Claude brings the rose to his face and breathes in.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Five times Claude picks a rose, and one time he picks Lorenz.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>200</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a rose by any other name</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For my boy's birthday, have a little Claude falling in love.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>1 | anomaly</em>
</p>
<p>In the peppercorn-pink sunshine of late afternoon, Claude plucks a rose. It is not like any of the other roses in the gardens at Garreg Mach; not a pale, matronly salmon, nor a virgin blush, but a deep succulent red that’s nearly black where the velvety petals curl together near the stem, a bloody goblet for a faerie king. It had rained, earlier, and a few drops still linger toward the center of the bloom like diamonds on a bed of silk. Claude brings the rose to his face and breathes in.</p>
<p>“How unusual.”</p>
<p>He turns. Lorenz is standing nearby, framed in the dregs of daylight that slip through the columns of the gazebo. He is dressed for gardening: shirtsleeves rolled neatly to the elbow, workworn boots, canvas trousers finely cut but still stained with hard labor.</p>
<p>They have all made concessions to the reality of restoring Garreg Mach in wartime, but the change is most striking in Lorenz. Once upon a time he’d complained of dirtying his lily-white hands in the stables, or in the fields; now he presses shoulder to shoulder with the rest of them, brow furrowed, jaw set, determination woven into his frame like the wild roses that climb the cathedral wall unchecked.</p>
<p>“A genetic anomaly, perhaps.” Lorenz approaches, wiping sweat from his brow and leaving a slight smear of dirt behind. He doesn’t seem to notice, and Claude decides not to tell him. It’s more charming than it should be. “An extraordinary color. We should isolate the plant and see if any more will bloom.”</p>
<p>“It’s beautiful,” Claude agrees, not looking at the flower in his gloved hand. He doesn’t recall the hollow of Lorenz’s throat being quite so captivating before. “Here. Take it.”</p>
<p>Lorenz blinks at him. “For me?”</p>
<p>“Yes for you.” He twirls the stem between thumb and forefinger, but the glove makes him clumsy and the rose spins fast enough that it sprays its last few dewdrops against Lorenz’s cheek. “Er…”</p>
<p>The old Lorenz might have scolded him or scoffed at him, brushing him off; but five years and a war have changed him. Softened him. Or not softened, exactly, only given him the courage to peer over the wall he’d built around himself, to pry open the rivets of the armor he was forced into at a young age. The Lorenz before him now laughs, and wipes his face, leaving more dirt behind that Claude can no longer ignore.</p>
<p>“Hang on, you’ve got something—” He tugs his glove off awkwardly, taking care not to crush the rose in his grip, and reaches out, wiping away the smudge with his thumb. Lorenz’s smile fades, but his eyes remain pinned to Claude’s face, dark and wondering. “There. Sorry.” He drops his hand and holds out the rose again. <em>Second time’s the charm? </em></p>
<p>“Thank you, Claude,” Lorenz says, but he doesn’t move to take it. Instead he reaches into his pocket and produces a garment pin. “Would you be so kind as to affix it to my lapel?”</p>
<p>“Oh. All right.” The other glove drops to the grass, and Claude nips the long end of the stem with his teeth to make it more of a boutonniere. This he pins in place over Lorenz’s left breast, taking great pains not to prick him. He’s very warm through his shirt, and Claude can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, making him short of breath despite the simple task.</p>
<p>“There,” he says when he’s finished, stepping back a little. Breathing evenly has never been more difficult. “Now you look like yourself.”</p>
<p>“Thank you.” Lorenz touches the petals briefly, admiring them while Claude admires <em>him</em>. “It’s lovely.”</p>
<p><em>Not as lovely as you,</em> Claude thinks. He swallows back the compliment and wedges a smile in place behind his lips, brandishing his shears. “Well. Shall we press on?”</p>
<p>“Indeed,” Lorenz says with a smile. “It wouldn’t do to disappoint the Professor, now, would it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>2 | thorn</em>
</p>
<p>“It’s reckless.”</p>
<p>Conversation grinds to a halt as everyone turns to look at the tall, slim man sitting at the other end of the table. Usually Claude would be standing—or sitting—opposite him, but in his fervor to outline the battle plan he had in mind, he’s drifted along the length of the table to use the enormous map of Fódlan tacked to the far wall. He feels the entire length of that table between them suddenly, and more. Lorenz could be standing at the opposite end of the monastery for how close they feel right now.</p>
<p>“Sorry?” he says, as politely as he can manage. The weight of a room full of eyes swings back toward him like a ship pitching steeply in a gale, and he clenches a fist in its glove to prevent the irritation from showing on his face.</p>
<p>“Your plan. It’s reckless. It relies too heavily on terrain we have no practical experience with.” Lorenz’s lavender eyes slide sideways to where Hilda sits, pink mouth as tight and prim as the origami fold of her hands on the table in front of her. She hasn’t touched her watered-down wine all afternoon, even though the sun is streaming cleanly through the leaded glass, warming the room like a large oven. “And we don’t know enough about what to expect when we arrive.”</p>
<p>“If you would allow me to finish,” Claude says with unleavened politeness weighing down his voice, “I was getting to that part.”</p>
<p>Lorenz’s eyes narrow. “By all means.”</p>
<p>Claude continues, but his enthusiasm has waned somewhat; as he covers the likely scenarios they’ll encounter at the Throat, he can hear the weak points of his arguments when earlier in his head they’d seemed so stable. <em>Just Lorenz trying to throw you off your game</em>, he tells himself, but the words ring hollow. Lorenz isn’t <em>wrong</em>. That’s the worst part.</p>
<p>Actually, scrap that. The worst part is Lorenz is right, and Claude is going to overrule him anyway.</p>
<p>“This, of course, is the worst case scenario,” he says as he finishes describing the potential for arriving to a Throat completely captured by Almyran forces—which, for a variety of reasons, is both unlikely and not necessarily the worst case scenario, not that he can explain the whys and wherefores of that. “More likely it’ll be somewhere in between—”</p>
<p>“We can’t exactly afford a siege right now,” Lorenz interrupts, just as his fellow Deer are beginning to soften toward the idea. “We can hardly keep our people fed here as it is.”</p>
<p>“An auxiliary force is not a siege. It is a temporary measure until we can afford to properly negotiate—”</p>
<p>“Almyrans can’t be negotiated with.” This time it’s Hilda who breaks in before he can finish, hands folded so tightly in front of her that her knuckles looked like bleached bone. “Believe me, I have first-hand experience. We must show them a level of undeniable force, or they’ll simply return again in a month’s time when we’re too far west to deal with it.”</p>
<p>“In a month’s time,” Claude says slowly, trying not to burst a blood vessel, “General <em>Holst</em> will be back on his feet, goddess willing. As I made clear: this would be a stopgap in a worst case scenario that is unlikely to happen.”</p>
<p>He wants to address the issue of <em>negotiation</em>, but he’s afraid if he tries he’ll say or do something he’ll regret. Thankfully Lorenz takes the opportunity to bend his ire toward Hilda instead, giving Claude a moment to gather his composure. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Professor Byleth looking at him with something very nearly like concern on their expressionless face. He takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out slow through his mouth, and lets the conversation fade back into focus.</p>
<p>“—and I suppose you think you could do better,” Hilda is saying, red in the face, nails like claws trying to score marks into the ancient wood of the war table. “You and your <em>Gloucester</em> name and peerless history.”</p>
<p>“We would certainly make a better job of it than the Gonerils,” Lorenz replies blandly. Unlike Hilda, he doesn’t flush when he’s angry. Instead he gets even paler, voice as perfectly even and well-bred as the finest Aegir racehorse, or a dancer on a stage, whirling in perfect time closer and closer to the edge. “Laid low by a mushroom, was it? It’s a wonder the Throat hasn’t been breached before now.”</p>
<p>Someone—Leonie, Claude thinks—lets out a small snort at his choice of words, but it’s drowned out by the scrape of Hilda’s chair as she stands abruptly, for once taller than the man beside her.</p>
<p>“That’s rich, coming from <em>you</em>. Your father capitulated as soon as he could get away with it, and we had to spill our own blood on Gloucester lands to win back Myrddin!”</p>
<p>“My father did what he thought was best for our people,” Lorenz says stiffly, though Claude can see his resolve slipping. “Something the Gonerils tend to forget when they invade a perfectly peaceful neighbor every other year to remind them who the superior nation is.”</p>
<p>“All right, that’s enough,” Claude booms, slamming a fist on the table before Hilda can volley back. Everyone jumps in their seats, even Lorenz, and he takes advantage of their attention to make the most of his rank. “Hilda, sit down. Lorenz, for once, shut up. These petty arguments will get us nowhere. May I remind you that we are all allies at this table? Or shall I send you both to the training yard to squabble like children?”</p>
<p>Neither one speaks. Hilda, vaguely tomato-faced, sits down gingerly and takes a fortifying gulp of wine. At the corner of the room, Byleth’s stiffened shoulders settle, and their hand drops away from the hilted sword at their side.</p>
<p>“Goddess,” Claude sighs, suddenly weary. He braces both fists on the table and bows his head. “I changed my mind. Dismissed, all of you. We’ll reconvene after supper.”</p>
<p>No one protests, to his surprise. Not even Lorenz. One by one they push back their chairs and file out, Byleth on their heels. When the door shuts heavy on its ancient, oiled hinges, Claude turns his back to the room and stares at the map with red-rimmed eyes.</p>
<p>Behind him, someone clears their throat. His back stiffens and he does everything he can not to snap as the click of delicate heeled boots echoes through the room.</p>
<p>“I can’t imagine that you have anything further to say,” he tells the maps before him, refusing to meet Lorenz’s eyes. “You had your little dressing-down in front of the others. Is that not what you wanted?”</p>
<p>“It was not, in fact. I see now that I should have held my concerns until a more appropriate time.” Lorenz’s voice, while still stiff and uncomfortable, sounds earnest enough. Claude drops his tensed-up shoulders and turns to face him. “I apologize,” Lorenz says, seemingly heartened by Claude’s engagement. “And I apologize for snipping at Hilda, that was exceedingly unprofessional.”</p>
<p>“Yes it was,” Claude murmurs. “I can’t deny that it wasn’t somewhat gratifying, though.”</p>
<p>The corner of Lorenz’s lip twitches. “Still. She’s worried about her brother. I shouldn’t have poked the, er, sleeping bear, as it were.”</p>
<p>Claude’s brow quirks. “A Fódlanese expression, I take it?”</p>
<p>“Are you not familiar?” It’s Lorenz’s turn to cast him a curious glance, but Claude only shrugs. “A man of many secrets, even now. Even after all these years.” Lorenz doesn’t sound accusatory, just… resigned. It hurts a little tender place inside him that he cannot divulge the entire truth, but Claude continues to hold his tongue. After another beat or so of silence, Lorenz sighs. “I suppose your so-called <em>plans</em> for the Throat are a secret as well.”</p>
<p>“Wow, Lorenz, I thought you were paying attention at least a little. Enough to pick my presentation to shreds like a hungry vulture, at any rate.”</p>
<p>“It was far from your best work,” Lorenz scoffs. “Anyone could see that.”</p>
<p>“Anyone, eh?” Claude echoes, turning askance from that narrowed gaze to crank open one of the leaded windows. It moves rustily in its frame, but the cool breath of air it lets in is worth the effort. Cool air, and a wash of floral aromas from the wild yellow roses that ramble up the pitted stone to bob their sunny faces into the room. “And yet you were the one to call my bluff.”</p>
<p>Lorenz harumphs. “So you admit it was fake.”</p>
<p>“I admit nothing, except that there are factors at play that even you do not know.” Claude reaches out for a particularly pretty specimen and withdraws his hand again with a barely stifled yelp. He examines his stinging thumb, already beading red with blood at the unkind prick of an errant thorn. “I can’t tell you how deeply I regret… no. I can, and I will. It pains me every day to withhold this from you, Lorenz, but I must beg you to trust me.”</p>
<p>“There are lives at stake,” Lorenz says after a moment, watching him closely. “I don’t mean soldiers. Innocent people. Villagers. Farmers. Goatherders. Ice miners.”</p>
<p>Claude can’t help feeling a little surprised. “You seem rather familiar with the economy of eastern Goneril territory.”</p>
<p>“It is my duty,” Lorenz says, longsuffering, “to be intimately acquainted with the infrastructure of Alliance. As its future leader—”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes,” Claude says, actually prodded into a laugh for the first time all afternoon. He sticks his thumb into his mouth to suck the blood away. When he drops his hand, the wound is nothing more than a harmless pinprick. “Nothing I haven’t heard before.”</p>
<p>“Quite.” Lorenz’s lips pinch shut like the clasps of a silk purse, but rather than looking pale and unpleasant, his face has a slight rosy tint, as though he’s just on the verge of blushing. “Very well, von Riegan. It seems I have no choice. But if you expect your people to follow you into the mountains on a hope and a wish, you had better prepare something a little more solid for this evening’s meeting.”</p>
<p>“Aye aye,” Claude says, and throws a mocking salute. “Nothing but the best for your dukeliness.”</p>
<p>Lorenz rolls his eyes, already turning away on one shiny, pristine heel. “I will leave you to it, then. And don’t neglect to feed yourself, Claude. No war was ever won on an empty stomach.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>3 | <em>vine</em></p>
<p>There aren’t enough swear words in Fódlanese to contain the breadth of his fear, so Claude switches to Almyran somewhere between wyvernback and the ground. He feels his ankle strain in its boot as he lands, rolling, hands plunging into wet loamy soil. There’s a river that runs rapid here in the spring, but right now it’s slowed to a trickle, and it’s the only reason that Lorenz is facedown in the mud instead of already drowned to death.</p>
<p>“Lorenz,” he says, mangled between the weft of other languages as he falls to his knees and reaches for a pulse. “Lorenz…”</p>
<p>He’s alive, though Claude isn’t sure how. He’d been mounted on the left side of the field where the cliffs dropped away to the half-dry riverbed, sent farther ahead under the Professor’s order with Lysithea as backup. He remembers seeing the flare of their twin crests from the sky, beneath the fine haze of smoke and debris that cloaked the battlefield. Now his body is a wreck, dashed on the rocks after a nasty pulse of magic ripped into his armor and spooked his horse so badly he was thrown from her back. The shriek of her whinny as she took off the way she’d come, nearly trampling Lysithea in the process, was what drew Claude’s eye—that, and Lysithea’s screams as she peered over the edge and shouted for backup.</p>
<p>Now Lorenz is deadweight in his arms, head lolling unconscious as Claude struggles to turn him over. Blood coats the left side of his face from a blow to his skull, and his armor is smoking and hot to the touch, even through the sturdy leather of Claude’s archer gloves. It was the only thing protecting him from breaking every bone in his body in the fall, but now it threatens to cook him alive, so Claude works quickly, carving open the seams of his breastplate with his hunting knife and tossing them aside to smolder on the wet riverbank.</p>
<p>Something sharp catches on his glove, nearly tearing through it like a knife through butter, and Claude stills. The leather seam is snagged on a jagged edge protruding from the left side of Lorenz’s breastplate, where the burnished purple metal is now blackened and spell-scarred. The edge, he realizes, belongs to the decorative metal rose that fits neatly into the nock of his pauldron where it connects with the breastplate. He hesitates only a moment before levering the tip of his knife beneath the screw and prying the tattered bloom from its resting place.</p>
<p>He’s sweaty and soot-stained by the time he finishes, shielded from stray rocks or arrows by Andromache’s leathery wings. Beneath the chitin of his armor, Lorenz is soft as a shelled crab, snow-white except where the molten metal burned shiny red marks into his skin. Claude curses himself for knowing so little faith magic and bows his head, listening for a breath.</p>
<p>“Told… you…” Lorenz wheezes, so soft Claude barely hears him at all. “Reckless.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Claude whispers, cradling his face in his lap. He wets the sleeve of his shirt in a bit of clean water from his flask and dabs the blood away. There’s so much of it, but it’s already starting to congeal, matting in Lorenz’s hair and sticking to his skin. “I asked you to trust me, and I failed you.”</p>
<p>Lorenz’s nostrils flare, but Claude isn’t sure whether he’s scoffing at him or struggling for breath. “Not… your fault.” His lips stay parted after the gargantuan effort of speaking, and his chest rises and falls rapidly, shallowly. When Claude tears his glove off with his teeth and puts a hand to his sternum, the beat of his heart is feather-light and erratic.</p>
<p>“Hang on, Lorenz,” he begs, not knowing what else to do. He doesn’t dare fly him back to Marianne in his condition, and leaving him to fetch her away from the battle is unthinkable. If he left, and Lorenz passed, alone on this putrid riverbank with no one to hold his hand or wish him safe travels to the other side—</p>
<p>A bead of water slides down his nose and plinks unceremoniously on the apex of Lorenz’s cheek. Lorenz doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are very far away, pupils retracted until they’re nearly pinprick-small, breath coming shorter and shorter. He doesn’t seem to realize Claude is even there, anymore, even when Claude cups his cheek in one hand and bows to kiss his forehead.</p>
<p>“Come on,” he rasps, “stay with me. Stay with me, Lor.”</p>
<p>Surely he can do <em>something.</em> His magical prowess is limited, but desperation drives him—he focuses inward, searching blindly for some well of power, some energy he’s not sure he even possesses. All he can find is fear, stinging and ice-cold. Better than nothing.</p>
<p>This time when he presses his lips to Lorenz’s brow, he imagines taking a lens of glass and angling it to catch the sun just right, creating a beam of pure white light. It fills him like a hot bath, or the warmth of the sun in the palace at home. And then he exhales, nose shoved to the crown of Lorenz’s bloodied head, and he lets it all flow out of him until he’s dizzy from lack of oxygen.</p>
<p>A cool hand touches his shoulder some time later, jerking him out of his stupor. Marianne’s calm face fills his vision like the moon peeking over the horizon, and he nearly sobs with relief, taking inventory of his stiff limbs, the tingle of blood flowing back into his legs where Lorenz’s weight rests.</p>
<p>Lorenz.</p>
<p>“Is he—” he begins, but his voice is frayed beyond recognition and he coughs instead, turning away. When he turns back, Lorenz is still laying in his arms, still pinched and pale; but his chest rises and falls in a steadier measure, and there’s a soft pink to his cheeks that wasn’t there before. “Thank the gods—the goddess,” he rasps. “Marianne, thank you… thank you.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t done anything yet,” she says softly. She smiles, pushing a bloodied block of blue hair behind one ear. “You kept him alive.”</p>
<p>Claude squints down at her hands as they cradle Lorenz’s skull between them. “I don’t understand. I never really got the hang of faith magic.”</p>
<p>Marianne just shrugs, too focused on the task at hand to pay his ramblings much mind. As he watches, more color returns to Lorenz’s face, and his breathing grows deep and slow, softened into a proper sleep. Blood still coats the side of his face, but his body is no longer tense and wracked with pain. When Claude presses shaky fingers to his neck, his pulse thuds strong beneath the skin.</p>
<p>“Is it over?” he asks, still strangely unwilling to let Lorenz go.</p>
<p>“Yes.” Marianne sits back on her heels and shakes out her hands. “Professor Byleth said to speak with them when you’re ready for debrief.”</p>
<p>Right. They would need to go over the results of the battle, the wins and losses, the casualties. He looks to Lorenz one more time as he levers himself to his feet, putting a hand to Andromache’s flank to steady himself. His blood-stained hair falls over Marianne’s robes as she takes a wetted cloth to his face, working to make him comfortable. A chill comes over him—how careless he’d been! How close Lorenz had come to being one of that number.</p>
<p>He stumbles to his feet and turns away, feeling almost nauseous for a moment. Then his eyes fall on the rose, chipped and blackened where it lays on the riverbank. Slowly, feeling as though his body has aged fifty years, he crouches down and scoops it up into his bare, soot-stained hand, taking care with the sharp edges.</p>
<p>“I’ll send a mounted rider down for you,” he hears himself say. Marianne had managed to descend the cliff’s narrow trail on her own without incident, but there was no way she’d make it back with Lorenz’s deadweight to contend with. His stomach curdles. <em>Bad choice of words. </em>“Will you be all right for now?”</p>
<p>Marianne just dips her chin, too focused on her work to spare him a word. Claude pockets the burnt metal rose and swings astride Andromache with only a little difficulty. Together they launch skyward, the taste of blood and ash still in his mouth. <em>Not your fault</em>, Lorenz had said. His last words, if the worst had come to pass. Forgiveness of a sort, but it’s more than Claude deserves. He turns Andromache toward the gates of Fódlan’s Throat and tries to put it out of his mind.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>4 | compass</em>
</p>
<p>The rain is a cold and furious torrent out of the steel-grey sky, lashing their little caravan as it troops through the scrubland of northern Goneril territory. They’ve left the mountains of Fódlan’s Throat behind—visible on a clear day, but now swallowed up by the storm, erasing the only real landmark Claude had to fix their place on a map. Now they might as well be traveling blind.</p>
<p>Theirs was intended to be a swift errand. Ride out with a small, mobile unit, battalions coming up to meet them from Goneril Hold where Hilda’s father resided in the off season. Do their business at the Throat, then ride back none the worse for wear. Unfortunately it had come to blows more than Claude had hoped, and now they travel slowly, lacking proper tents and more extensive medical equipment, encumbered with wounded who have no hope of riding swiftly enough to outrun the storm.</p>
<p>Claude walks out ahead with Andromache pacing nervously at his side; she dislikes the rain, and it falls so thick and fast they can hardly see the ground, making flying a tenuous prospect at best. With Byleth one of their injured, it’s up to him to navigate. But the sloping hills with their patchy gorse all feel the same underfoot, and though he tries to wind back and forth between them, not wanting to waste energy climbing each one in a straight line, he can’t help but feel like he’s going in circles.</p>
<p>He’d asked Hilda, early on in the day, whether she might want to assist him, given they’re passing through her family’s territory. She’d shrugged and batted her eyes and said something about <em>not being allowed to wander the wilds as a little girl, goodness, Claude! What funny ideas you have</em>. So he pressed on, one foot in front of the other, and hoped he wasn’t wasting precious time and resources wandering without a guide.</p>
<p>Though the grey quality of the air has hardly changed, he pegs it about midafternoon when a call comes out of the rain to his left: “Ho there! Claude!”</p>
<p>He gives a low whistle, pulling Andromache up, and he turns, shielding his eyes against the rain. His oilskin hood has all but given up the ghost. “Ignatz, is that you?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Your Grace,” the archer chirps, stepping out of the rain. He’s attired similarly—long oiled cloak, hood pulled low in an attempt to shield his glasses from the downpour—but unlike Claude, he doesn’t look overly concerned with their caravan’s progress. Or lack thereof. “I come bearing a message.”</p>
<p>Claude shuts his eyes and keeps walking, gesturing for him to keep pace. It wouldn’t do to halt their entire group’s progress for a little chit-chat. “Right. Go ahead, then.”</p>
<p>“It’s Lord Gloucester—I mean Lorenz,” he corrects hastily when Claude visibly blanches. Thank the gods. “He said to ask you whether our esteemed leader intends to find a road anytime soon or if we’re that concerned about a bandit raid in this foul weather.”</p>
<p>Credit to Ignatz: he certainly copies Lorenz’s cadence well enough, even if his timbre is a little too deep to be a perfect mimic.</p>
<p>“Is that so,” Claude deadpans.</p>
<p>“Word for word,” Ignatz assures him.</p>
<p>Claude sighs, and whistles sharply to indicate a rest. Even over the rain he can hear the clank of armor as battalions halt, the clomp and whinny of horses drawn up, the creaking as wagon wheels grow still. “All right. Watch Andy for me, will you?”</p>
<p>The smug little smile on Ignatz’s face slips as he glances at Claude’s white wyvern, drenched and irritable. Claude turns away, grinning, and makes for the back of the caravan.</p>
<p>Their supplies have dwindled enough to make room for two of their wounded on the back of the wagon, sheltered from the worst of the weather by a tightly-laced tarp. Despite his protests that he could ride, Lorenz was one of these, one half-healed leg splinted up tight until Manuela’s more experienced hands could work their magic, his right arm taped to his ribs to keep it from jostling too much. He’s still a bit grey around the edges with barely-suppressed pain when Claude pokes his head into the wagon’s dim interior, but he summons enough attitude to purse his lips and raise an unimpressed eyebrow. Claude’s amusement quickly bleeds away.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry about the… bumpy ride,” he says, keeping his voice lowered—the Professor, who lies beside him, is fast asleep. “Are you holding up all right?”</p>
<p>“I would be holding up a lot better,” Lorenz snips, “if we were on the road to Garreg Mach, instead of this strange wild goose chase you insist on. Is there some glacial pursuer we’re attempting to shake, or is this your idea of a practical joke?”</p>
<p>“I’m doing my best, all right? You can’t see an inch in front of your face out there.” Claude shakes his hood back in illustration, and water droplets fly everywhere as his damp hair is exposed, dry-ish in the back but soaked through and curling in disordered tangles against his face. “Are you in pain? I can fetch Marianne—”</p>
<p>“There’s no need,” Lorenz says swiftly. “She’s overtaxed herself enough as it is.” He leans his head back down against the thin blanket and sighs. “We’ve been traipsing through Goneril territory all day. If I’m not mistaken, we should have hit the King’s Road long before now.”</p>
<p>Claude swallows, and tries for a jovial tone. “Are you saying I’m <em>lost</em>?”</p>
<p>“I’m saying you don’t know where we’re going,” Lorenz returns, less acidic than his usual fare. The pain must really be getting to him. Claude grimaces. “Which is not entirely dissimilar. I can only assume we haven’t gone completely off course, or we’d have plunged into the Iriad River by now.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t been leading us in circles, have I?”</p>
<p>“Oh no, I would have been able to tell.” Lorenz still hasn’t opened his eyes, but he looks a little less grey; the stillness of the wagon after all that rattling about must feel positively blissful to his bruised and battered body.</p>
<p>“You’ve got a map in there, then?” Claude asks. He takes a risk, reaching out to tap Lorenz’s temple gently, and those lavender eyes snap open as if he’d stuck a hot poker to his balls. Claude jerks his hand away and clears his throat.</p>
<p>“Of course I have,” Lorenz says before he can apologize. “Don’t you?”</p>
<p>“I mean… sort of, you know, in a general sense—”</p>
<p>“Claude. As the future leader of the Alliance, you really ought to have a better grasp of the lands you mean to inherit.” Lorenz’s scolding is softer than it usually is. The pain, probably. Claude doesn’t dare make assumptions about more. “I must admit,” he adds, quieter now, “that I may have a slight advantage.”</p>
<p>Claude braces. He still hasn’t said anything directly about being born and raised outside of Fódlan, although by now surely it’s obvious to someone as perceptive and intelligent as Lorenz. But Lorenz doesn’t call him on it, just makes an aborted little gesture with his head, as though intending to wave his injured hand about and finding it pinned in place by the wrappings, and says—</p>
<p>“I have a bit of an internal compass. Even in the dark, or the rain, I sort of… know where North is.”</p>
<p>Claude’s first instinct is skepticism, but he pushes past it. He’s heard of this sort of ability before, more often seen in butterflies and waterfowl than people. A sort of instinct that can’t be explained by powers of observation or intellect. “Is it Crest-related?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I’ve always had it, so maybe. You’ve never been to the Gloucester estate? The house is like a maze, not to mention the gardens, but I never once got lost as a child. Perhaps that’s where I learned it.” The corner of his mouth flickers in memory. “You could wander for hours and never see a window.”</p>
<p>Claude shivers. “Creepy.”</p>
<p>“Yes. And wasteful. But that’s besides the point.” He takes a deeper breath and winces, lungs strained against the cracks in his ribs. “The <em>point</em> is that I recommend you shift us slightly left, and we should hit the King’s Road before long.”</p>
<p>There’s not even a hint of doubt in his voice. He knows his way. And he knows Claude will follow his directions. Claude is determined that his faith will not be unfounded.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he says, resisting the urge to squeeze his hand. “I was starting to worry, honestly.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Lorenz says simply. He smirks a little, and the expression brings life to his wan face. It lifts Claude’s spirits just to see. “You’d be lost without me, von Riegan. Now get to it, I’d like to see Manuela before nightfall if possible.”</p>
<p>That might be a little <em>too</em> much faith, Claude reflects as he laces the wagon cover back into place. A day’s hard ride could clear the distance, perhaps, if one had a change of horses halfway, but a caravan of their size and speed didn’t have a prayer. Especially considering how much time he already wasted wandering through the foothills.</p>
<p>At least no one seems to notice his lapse in judgement. He receives nods and salutes as he trudges back to the front of the line, ankle-deep in muck, and Ignatz is waiting earnestly where he left him, though with a healthy distance between himself and Andromache. Claude gives the all-clear whistle, and as they grind forward again he steers them subtly left—southwest—with Lorenz’s confident violet eyes swimming in his mind.</p>
<p>They hit the King’s Road within twenty minutes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>5 | <em>bud</em></p>
<p>At first it’s only happenstance. It’s the done thing in Fódlan to leave flowers at a sick friend’s bedside, and given the circumstances of Lorenz’s prescribed fortnight in the infirmary, Claude makes sure to keep a fresh vase of roses replenished daily at his bedside. He doesn’t <em>intend</em> for it to be a secret; it’s just that whenever he swings by first thing in the morning on his way to breakfast, before everyone is up and awake with a hundred and one things that need his personal attention, Lorenz happens to be asleep.</p>
<p>It doesn’t occur to him that Lorenz doesn’t know where they’re coming from until the fifth afternoon of the first week. He’s compiled his notes from the war meeting today, as per usual, and when he arrives Manuela waves him on through without even looking at him, nose buried in a book on crest-related injuries.</p>
<p>Lorenz is sitting up in bed, speaking calmly but animatedly with Marianne, who is perched on the edge of the mattress as she checks his healing ribs. His shirt is open and pushed off his shoulders for the procedure, and Claude winces at the yellow-green bruising festooning his skin before pivoting on his heel to give him privacy.</p>
<p>“Good afternoon, Claude,” Lorenz says. He sounds vaguely amused by Claude’s awkward entrance, which Claude takes as permission to turn and take a seat beside the bed.</p>
<p>“Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt.”</p>
<p>“You’re not interrupting anything,” Lorenz assured him. “We were just discussing the mystery of my… secret admirer.”</p>
<p>Claude blinks, and his chest constricts strangely around his insides. “Your what?”</p>
<p>Lorenz tips his head to indicate the bowl of perfume-heavy damask roses sitting by his bed. They were difficult to come by; Claude had to climb the wall to Rhea’s private garden in the pre-dawn light to get his hands on them. Truth be told he relished the challenge, already restless after a week back at base, but now he’s a little embarrassed at admit that he—the standing Duke of the Leicester Alliance—had climbed a wall to pick some flowers for a boy he fancied.</p>
<p>“My secret admirer,” Lorenz repeats, ignorant of his internal turmoil. “That’s what Hilda has dubbed them, anyway.”</p>
<p>To his credit, Claude recovers quickly. “No hint as to their origin?” he asks, leaning down to smell the fat, fragrant blooms as though he’s never seen them before in his life. There’s a scrape on the palm of his hand from climbing that morning; he curls is hand inward to hide it as he straightens back up.</p>
<p>“Not at all. They slip in when I’m asleep and before Manuela comes to do her morning rounds. It’s all very mysterious.” His violet eyes glint with good humor, and Claude can’t help smiling back.</p>
<p>“Mysterious indeed. Perhaps I should post a guard, if the infirmary can be so easily stolen into during the wee hours.”</p>
<p>“Tempting,” Lorenz muses, “but I admit I rather enjoy the drama of it all. It gives me something to occupy myself in between visitors.”</p>
<p>Claude lifts an eyebrow. “Daydreaming over handsome suitors?”</p>
<p>Lorenz blushes slightly. “You’re a cad. I meant trying to divine who it might <em>be</em>.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, of course. So very different from what I suggested.” Claude winks and waves his notes at him. “But if you’re that hard up for entertainment, I come bearing gifts. Not as beautiful as those, but hopefully just as effective at keeping your brain occupied.”</p>
<p>Lorenz lights up, and he snatches the scratch paper from Claude’s hand. “Yes, perfect. Thank you, Claude.”</p>
<p>As he reads, remarking frequently on salient points, Marianne tidies up her supplies and leaves them be. Claude leans back in the visitor’s chair, making himself comfortable. He keeps up his end of the conversation, but behind the banter and shop talk, his mind is racing ahead with thoughts of flowers and secret admirers. The boy in him, the boy who climbed a wall and picked a bowl of roses, is thrilled by the challenge, the chase. The man in him, the man waging war against a subtle tyrant, wonders whether he can afford such tomfoolery. Such <em>distractions</em>.</p>
<p>His eyes fall again to Lorenz, who is acerbic and whip-smart and animated despite his healing injuries. Marianne had neglected to lace up his shirt when she left. He can still see the bruising, the patches of shiny, healed-over skin where his armor had burned him. He swallows and drops his eyes, breathing in the smell of roses.</p>
<p>Lorenz is still alive. And tomfoolery or not, he intends to let him know he’s loved.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>+1 | <em>bloom</em></p>
<p>In the aftermath of a cool summer rain, Claude traverses the grounds of Garreg Mach. Cataloguing its scars, admiring its hidden beauties. It’s early morning still, and most inhabitants are still abed, sleeping off the revelries of the night before.</p>
<p>Despite everything they’ve been through, despite the peace talks in Enbarr, despite the final battle against Nemesis, he can’t help feeling restless. Like his job here isn’t done. May never <em>be</em> done. They’ve won a war, but the foundation of Fódlan is still rotten. The real work begins now, and he is leaving, relying on his friends to carry on in his stead. He isn’t running from it, he knows that. But he can’t help feeling as though he’s doing them a disservice to turn his back now that the bloody parts are over.</p>
<p>His feet wander unchecked in the early golden glow of morning, and eventually he finds himself in the gardens. The place is transformed from its ragged beginnings, even as it shows its wear and tear proudly. Chunks of fallen masonry now serve as benches, or pedestals for trinkets and other handmade decor. A cracked pillar leans against its brethren, forming sheltered little holes and homes for birds to stuff their nests inside. There is less carefully-cropped grass than there used to be. In its place are paving stones interspersed with clumps of creeping thyme and other low-lying blooms that don’t mind being stepped on.</p>
<p>He turns through a crumbling arch, its grey silhouette upheld by climbing roses, and draws up short. On one of the fallen stones now serving as a bench, Lorenz sits quietly, eyes shut. He doesn't seem to be speaking, or sleeping; if he’s praying, it’s silent, an internal communion, though to what higher power Claude isn’t sure. Lorenz has never been much for organized religion.</p>
<p>As Claude stands and watches, unsure whether to press forward or retreat, Lorenz opens his eyes. He smiles when he notices Claude, nodding his head in deferential greeting. That seems like invitation enough. He steps through the arch, brushing aside a bobbing blossom as it kisses dew to the crown of his head, and picks his way through a knee-high patch of phlox to take a seat at his side.</p>
<p>“You’re up early,” he says, when Lorenz is quiet.</p>
<p>“I felt like… greeting the day.” Lorenz sounds almost shy at the admission, but Claude has to admit the serenity on his face is captivating. He’s dressed simply, in a nondescript doublet and hose, hands unadorned with rings, elegant boots traded for soft leather-soled shoes. If it weren’t for the undeniable cut and quality of everything he wore, Claude could almost mistake him for a merchant or tradesman. Well, that and the eccentric hairstyle. “I recall you making time for meditation each morning during our school years.”</p>
<p>“I still do,” Claude says, surprised that Lorenz had noticed; then feeling foolish for his surprise. Lorenz notices a great deal. The true surprise lies in that he elected to keep the information to himself. “In the evening, these days. To help me sleep.”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes. A difficult endeavor, sometimes.” Lorenz tips his head back to watch the rosy dawn begin spilling across the sky. His hair falls against his collar, perfectly straight, stirring slightly in the breeze. Claude folds his hands in his lap to keep from touching it. “I was hoping there would be a new bouquet today, but I think I’ve beat them to the punch.”</p>
<p>Claude smiles at the ground. “Perhaps they’re sleeping off last night’s revelry.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps.” Lorenz has an arch, knowing tenor to his voice. Claude fears if he looks at him he’ll burst into laughter, so he doesn’t. “Have <em>you</em> any idea who it might be?”</p>
<p>“Why do you ask?” Claude asks airily. “I thought you <em>enjoyed the mystery</em>.”</p>
<p>“I do, and I have,” Lorenz admits, “but I think there comes a time when mystery runs a little thin. I would rather know the truth, before everyone goes their separate ways.”</p>
<p>Claude winces. He’s already had this discussion with Lorenz. The <em>I need you to succeed me as Duke</em> discussion. Lorenz had taken it surprisingly well, almost as if he had had some inkling before Claude even broached the subject. They have agreed to keep in contact, and begin negotiations between their countries as soon as possible, but Claude still isn’t looking forward to leaving him behind.</p>
<p>“I don’t think you’ll be pleased with the answer,” he says at last, standing.</p>
<p>“Oh? And why is that?”</p>
<p>It’s easier not to look him in the eye. If he looks, he’ll crumble, give way to those knowing eyes that seem to pry into his very soul. Instead he browses along the crumbling wall that looms at their backs, fingers outstretched to catch the wild yellow roses as they unfurl beneath the rising sun.</p>
<p>“It isn’t someone who can… be what you deserve.”</p>
<p>“And what do you know about what I do and do not deserve?”</p>
<p>“More than most, I’d wager.” Claude reaches up, giving the central vine a tug. Droplets of dew scatter like rain across Lorenz’s head and shoulders, and he ducks, glaring balefully as he wipes water from his face.</p>
<p>“Am I not allowed to decide for myself what to think?” he inquires, a bit sharply. Claude folds his hands behind his back, reticent.</p>
<p>“I suppose that’s true. May I… may I have a moment, first?”</p>
<p>Lorenz’s brows draw together in puzzlement. “I suppose.”</p>
<p>It’s unorthodox, to begin his little morning ritual with an audience—and such an audience!—but he does it anyway. First he peruses the larger flowers, roses and echinacea and peony, selecting a few choice blooms for his centerpiece. The peonies make a pretty choice today, their petals still curled inward against the cool night air. A few ants scatter at the touch of his hand, and he adds to their number fiery bee balm, joyful phlox, foxglove with their bells shaking off the morning dew. Whimsical springs of chamomile from the herb bed complete his eccentric bouquet. Then it’s only a matter of removing his cravat and twisting it into a neat wrapping around the stems, keeping them secure as he turns and presents the finished product to Lorenz with a flourish.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid I am to blame,” he says, hand to heart, bowing low enough that he can examine Lorenz’s knees instead of his face. The bouquet is accepted, and he drops back onto the makeshift bench as Lorenz bends his nose to it. “I didn’t start off to make a big secret of it, but once it began I… perhaps let it get a bit out of hand.”</p>
<p>“Out of hand,” Lorenz echoes. His voice is strangely flat even as he lays the flowers carefully across his lap. “You mean that you knew I was flattered by these anonymous attentions, even charmed, and you did nothing to dissuade my assumptions of a <em>secret admirer</em>.”</p>
<p>The flatness evolves, grows thorns, and becomes scorn. Claude wavers on the edge, mind racing. He is leaving Fódlan for the foreseeable future in three days’ time. He can offer Lorenz nothing; no promises, no assurances, no oaths to secure their future. And yet his stomach is clenched hard as iron, and he can taste bile in the back of his throat at the idea of standing and walking away without giving him the full and honest truth.</p>
<p>“I did not dissuade you, you’re right. Perhaps I should have. But I… I was flattered, too. It was amusing to try and impress you every day, to find new ways of surprising you. It was a bright spot during, may I say, some of the darkest days of my life. Of all our lives.” As he speaks, he can feel Lorenz softening next to him; when their elbows brush, he leans into it, moving bravely to rest his hand atop Lorenz’s on the bench. “And besides. There was nothing to dissuade. I <em>did</em> admire you. I <em>do</em>.”</p>
<p>Now it is Lorenz’s turn to look away. He keeps his head bowed, turned slightly; his hair falls over his cheek so that it’s impossible to tell what he might be thinking. “And what was that nonsense, just now, about deserving?” he asks in a low voice.</p>
<p>Claude watches the yellow roses sway in the breeze, watches the sky bleeding pink to orange above the broken masonry wall. He’d fought a war, and now he struggles to find the words for <em>this</em>.</p>
<p>“My parents,” he says, and he can hear Lorenz’s little huff of surprise, but presses on, “my parents fell in love despite the borders between them, despite their origins. And they remained in love despite the hardships they faced, and continue to face even now. I suppose I always assumed that was a once in a lifetime sort of thing. Once in a generation. I didn’t think I was the sort to do something so dramatic as… as falling in love with the enemy.”</p>
<p>“The <em>enemy</em>?” Lorenz squawks, but a swift squeeze of his hand quells him.</p>
<p>“Did you not think of me as such, in the beginning?”</p>
<p>“Competition, at the very least,” Lorenz sniffs. “An interloper. But the <em>enemy</em>…”</p>
<p>“Regardless. It seemed too fairytale to happen to me, and yet it did. And I don’t know what that means for you, or for me, or for the future, but it would be remiss of me to return to Almyra without breathing a word of it to you first. I’m… I’m only sorry for leaving it so long, but, well. There was a war on.”</p>
<p>“So there was.” Lorenz sighs, and turns his hand beneath Claude’s so that their fingers can interlace. “You know, as a boy when I wished for a handsome prince to sweep me off my feet, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”</p>
<p>Claude laughs out loud, startling a thrush from her nest across the garden. “Forgive me, I should have practiced. Here, let me.” He stands, tugging Lorenz up with him, grinning when Lorenz peers at him suspiciously. “What? Do you doubt my strength? I’ve been training with Raphael, you know.”</p>
<p>Lorenz’s eyes drop to his chest. “Yes, I know—<em>eep!</em>”</p>
<p>Despite fair warning, he flails in shock as Claude scoops him into his arms, pleased when he only has to strain a little to keep Lorenz’s gangly body steady. “How’s that?” he asks. He intends it to be jovial, but it comes out rough and a little breathless. He hadn’t realized how close Lorenz’s face would be to his own like this. “Does it measure up to your boyhood imaginings?”</p>
<p>“A little closer, perhaps,” Lorenz allows. He sounds as breathless as Claude feels, and his cheeks a positively rosy. “You’ve made me drop my bouquet, though, and that is difficult to forgive.”</p>
<p>“I’ll pick you another,” Claude says immediately. “And another, and another—”</p>
<p>He is interrupted, quite abruptly, when Lorenz cups his cheek in one hand and kisses him. For a split second every bone and muscle in his body is smelted down for scrap and he nearly drops him; but then he rallies, kisses back, soft and warm as their lips cling gently in the morning light.</p>
<p>“You’re shaking,” Lorenz whispers against his mouth. He’s smirking slightly—Claude can feel it against his skin, can hear it more than he sees it. “Perhaps a little more training is required.”</p>
<p>“Maybe I’m just overcome by your beauty,” Claude suggests. Still, he concedes to placing Lorenz carefully on his feet; and then he is the one looking, craning upward, cheeks cradled between Lorenz’s soft hands.</p>
<p>They kiss and kiss, Claude’s arms around his waist and Lorenz’s tongue in his mouth. When they finally part, he’s almost forgotten why he’d been so hesitant to confess in the first place. Lorenz, too, seems dazed. His lips are red and swollen, cheeks flushed hot and hair askew where Claude hand run his fingers through it, the notch of his collar open wider than it had been ten minutes ago.</p>
<p>“Well?” Lorenz asks. He reaches out, brushing his thumb to Claude’s lower lip like some sort of strange benediction. “Do you still intend to break my heart?”</p>
<p>“That was never my intention in the first place,” Claude protests.</p>
<p>“Oh yes? So you were just going to leave Fódlan without a word about… any of it?” He bends, scooping up the discarded bouquet and setting it gently onto the bench, brushing aside a few crushed petals. “That seems rather heartbreaking to me.”</p>
<p>“And did <em>you</em> have any intention of telling <em>me</em> how you felt?”</p>
<p>“I’m not the one who’s been leaving flowers by my door for two months,” Lorenz observes, but he’s smiling, a touch sadly. “I was going to write you a letter. I didn’t want to tell you, and find out that it had been someone else this whole time. Call me a coward, if you like, it would hardly be inaccurate.”</p>
<p>Claude shakes his head. “You’re the bravest man I know, Lorenz. Maybe it’s time I took a page out of your book.” He takes his hands one by one, holding them the way a suitor might when preparing to ask his lover’s hand in marriage. “I love you. Rather inconvenient, I know, considering what we’re about to do. I don’t want to ask you to wait for me—”</p>
<p>“Why not?” Lorenz interrupts.</p>
<p>Claude falters, thrown off his rhythm. “I—sorry?”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you want to ask me to wait for you?”</p>
<p>“It… well, it doesn’t seem fair, given the roles we must play…”</p>
<p>“Ask me anyway.”</p>
<p>Claude sucks in a breath. Lorenz’s eyes are piercing, almost stern, chin lifted as he regards him like a challenger across a dueling ring. Insistent. <em>Demanding</em>.</p>
<p>
  <em>Ask me anyway. </em>
</p>
<p>“Lorenz,” he begins again, heart in his throat, “will you wait for me? I can’t promise you a time, or a place, but I <em>can</em> promise that I love you with my whole heart, and whatever the distance between us, I want to try.”</p>
<p>Lorenz smiles, a pretty pink flush to his cheeks—but he says nothing. The silence stretches out, untenable. Claude is bracing to flee the scene when Lorenz takes a breath of his own and leans in, hand to shoulder, to kiss his cheek. It’s soft, and brief, but the warmth of it lingers even after he’s stepped away.</p>
<p>“I’ll wait,” he murmurs. “As long as it takes.”</p>
<p>“I’ll send bouquets,” Claude blurts out even as Lorenz leans down to kiss him. “Every day—”</p>
<p>Lorenz laughs at him, and it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. “And write,” he instructs between kisses. “I insist upon it.”</p>
<p>“Of course.” The rising sun is very warm on his cheeks, dazzling almost, as he reaches up on tip toe to kiss back. “I’ll write until you’re sick of me.”</p>
<p>“Impossible,” Lorenz scoffs. “I dare you to try.”</p>
<p>Flooded with resolve, Claude wraps his arms around his waist and holds Lorenz close as dawn breaks fully over Garreg Mach. He’s never been one to back down from a challenge.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! If you'd like to celebrate Lorenz's birthday all week long AND help support Black LGBT+ lives, please follow <a href="https://twitter.com/lorenzweek">@lorenzweek</a> on Twitter. We are raising money for a different charity every day, and donating $15 or more enters you into a raffle to win some Lorenz art or fic!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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